


Younger Faces Than Our Hearts Are Letting On

by masu



Series: moments in the life [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romantic Fluff, Romanticism, Sharing a Bed, and self indulgent sickeningly-in-love markhyuck, glorified character study, zero context
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-12 23:24:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20164345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masu/pseuds/masu
Summary: When we sleep at night,I hope that we write novels in our heads,of what to tell the other when we wake.And when morning comes before we're done, with volumes left to choose,lets say,"I love you".Just,"I love you".And "I love you too."





	Younger Faces Than Our Hearts Are Letting On

**Author's Note:**

> this is entirely inspired by the song "novels" by rusty clanton - highly recommend, it makes me emotional every time. anyway i've had writer's block now for about three years and am desperately trying to somehow break this curse bc writing is an old outlet of mine and I'm deeply, grossly invested in markhyuck so here have some desperate attempt at a depiction of young love. this isn't edited at ALL and was written as i went so expect some rough and run on sentences whoosh

The radiator beneath the windowsill broke two weeks ago. Where there once had been a warm radiance and a ratting hum instead whistled a chill breeze and numbing cold that necessitated whoever was nearby to bury themselves in threadbare layers, cursed for the season with blue fingertips and chattering teeth. Orange light from the streetlamp outside persistently cut indoors through the bent shingle blinds, deceiving and soft as it stretched glacially across the ceiling, illuminating the dips in the plaster and the curling corners of fading posters.

In response to the frosty air, Mark’s old twin bed with it’s long busted mattress had been rotated and pushed against the corner nearest the door, as far from the uninsulated glass as possible. Blue sheets, a black comforter, two old woven blankets mottled with bleach spots and one pillow were strewn across its surface, kicked apart and rearranged by sleeping limbs burrowing away from the chill. Amongst the silence of the room, two chests rose and fell, stale breath fogging as it was exhaled and curled above. 

The younger of the pair faced the ceiling, his shoulders sinking deep into the padding beneath. One arm was laid stretched over his head with fingers loosely grasping at the edge of the headboard. His other arm was hugged against his own sternum, small mouth slightly pursed, pale lips barely cracked open. His legs were entwined with those of the boy next to him, one knee bent over the other’s bare thigh, ankle hooking his shin and pulling him closer. The comforter, made rough from dozens of washes and cheap detergent, caught and rubbed between their tangled limbs. In contrast, the elder was turned onto his side, spine curved with one elbow bracketed beneath his head with his palm facing skyward, the other hand clutching at the opposing edges of his bedmate’s rib cage, easily spanning the thin width of his torso. Dry fingertips gently brushed the small stretch of tan skin right above his hip bone, exposed by a twisted sweatshirt. 

Mark’s mouth was pressed gently to the side of his head, chapped lips and warm huffs padding against Donghyuck’s temple. His nose brushed the ends of thick, dark strands, chasing the familiar scent of dirty hair and the slight beading of sweat on his scalp from the inevitable overheating of their bodies pressed together, warm and pliant and buried beneath a mountain of soft fabrics and synthetic down.

Later, when one slowly turns away from unconsciousness, they will pull apart and break. Recently, its Donghyuck who is the first to stir, feeling suffocated and too hot from the proximity and pushing Mark away with the heels of his hands and arches of his feet whilst groaning a mumbled complaint, turning to curl in closer to the wall. Or Mark, swallowing a lump in his upper throat and pulling back across the pillow once his vision clears and a small flash of  _ something _ causes his heart to hitch a beat. He’ll have to suck in a shallow, rattling breath, glancing unblinkingly across the edge of Donghyuck’s jaw and the soft curve of his cheekbone.

In the end, however, both will end up pressed back together. Whether it’s Donghyuck’s face buried into Mark’s chest, Mark locking his arms around Donghyuck’s waist, palms pressed together between their throats, or foreheads pressed together to share a mingled breath. Warm, safe, content, hidden in the darkness of the room and the clutches of each other. And when morning comes and an alarm blares, the first capable of speech will smile, push forwards and whisper,

“Hello.”

And the other will respond after a few seconds, with a voice still gravelly and coarse,

“Hello to you too.”

  
  



End file.
